


Romeo is Dead

by Shachaai



Series: APH Olympics [8]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/F, Gen, Rio 2016 Summer Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-23 23:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20016523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: If flirting won’t make your irritable English sweetheart invite you in, annoying the hell out of her will definitely bring herout.





	Romeo is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr. This was originally written at the time of the 2016 Olympics in Brazil.
> 
> If you’re interested in the building layout for the various countries’ teams, [see here](https://shachaai.tumblr.com/post/148759972489/completed-ish-the-information-i-was-looking).  
> Elaine is England’s human name here.

England _knows_ she shouldn’t have decided to spend some time relaxing on the deckchairs. Deep in her _bones_ she had known that leaving her apartment, trotting down to the decking in front of the building and depositing her arse in one of those comfortable, but hideously stereotypical, Union Flag-patterned deckchairs for an hour off with her shades on would be testing the heavens, the Fates, and whatever Powers Might Be - and the universe rises to her challenge barely ten minutes in, a familiar voice crying from the wilderness beyond the British security line.

“Elaine!”

England slinks down further into her deckchair, pretending that a) she is not there, and b) if she actually is, she believes the voice might be calling for someone else.

 _“Elaine!”_ The voice repeats, louder and harder to ignore than before, a female voice that has haunted her for almost two millennia. _“Kirkland!”_

England slips even further down in her deckchair, and staunchly pretends to be asleep.

 _“Ma chou chérie!_ I _know_ you can hear me, Elaine!”

A few of the other people on the decking, hearing the woman shouting from outside the lion-bedecked security perimeter, are beginning to cast amused glances at each other - and at England, sliding down so far in her deckchair her arse is barely still in the seat anymore. A few of them know her preferred human name, as she has socialised with the team as they go about the building and Olympic Village.

One of the men’s diving team stops by the decking railing, smile wide and waving a hand in the direction of The Noisy Nuisance. _“Mademoiselle!_ If you feel so inclined, _I_ could be your Elaine!”

Scattered laughter from some of the British, and England puts her thumb to her forehead, rubbing just under the bridge of her sunglasses where she can feel a headache coming on.

“I thank you for the offer, _m’sieur_ , but the world is hard enough with just the one of her.” There is a considering pause. “But _you_ may absolutely call me later though.”

Oh, that’s it.

 _“He will absolutely_ not!” England pushes herself up to her feet to the sound of her people’s laughter increasing, reaching the railing and casting a rather scathing eye at her would-be replacement. (He had _better_ have been joking.) “Aren’t you engaged? Piss off.” The diver obligingly scarpers, and England resigns herself to fate - and French - by leaning on the railing, looking out past the security barrier downstairs from the decking and to the dark blonde woman waiting there, a shining beacon of Trouble.

France has the cheek to _wave_ back at her.

England pushes her shades up on top of her head and scowls. “What the _hell_ do you want?!”

Despite the peculiarly changeable Rio weather and any sort of _hurry_ she might have been required to be in to get to and from sporting venues on time to cheer on her athletes, France is somehow maintaining perfectly perfect Tousled Curls and flatteringly _chic_ sportswear. England, who has had to borrow a scrunchie (after somehow losing the pack of 12 that she had brought with her to Brazil) to tie her hair back in a rather unenthusiastic ponytail, can feel _her_ hair sticking unpleasantly to the back of her neck, not to mention the beginnings of chafing between her legs where her shorts have ridden up. She hates France _utterly._

Uncharitably, France does not seem to be reciprocating the sentiment. “Can you not see how I am _pining_ for you?” This is too melodramatic for relaxation time; England makes a disgusted noise and turns to go back inside the building. The deckchairs were a bad idea. _“Oh!_ Tu vas me poser un lapin? Tu _est_ froid!” Hardly the worst insult that France can fling - or has flung before - at England, and not worth stopping for. “Elaine, I will stand here and compose terrible poetry about your breasts if necessary!”

Immediately indignant, England whirls. “It is _never_ necessary to compose poetry about people’s breasts!”

Occasionally, England forgets just how much her Battlefield Voice _carries._

There is a dead silence from the British athletes and their team members on the decking.

There is a dead silence from the buildings on either _side_ of the building hosting Team GB, Latvians, Serbians, Seychellois, Lithuanians and Armenians turning to stare.

Under the sudden weight of so many _eyes_ , England’s cheeks flood with red.

 _France_ decides that the opportunity is ripe for carrying through on her _ridiculous_ threat, declaiming her derogatory on-the-spot _drivel_ to an amused, stunned and momentarily captive audience:

_“Les nichons de Elaine sont durs comme sa coeur_

_Et sont blanc comme les falaises de Douvres_

_La raison de leur petite taille est politique rigueur_

_Quelle -”_

By _blanc_ England has all but flung herself at the stairs separating the reserved decking from the security fence. _La raison_ has her at the bottom, and _quelle_ past security and grabbing at France so roughly whilst still running that she almost throws the both of them bodily to the ground (much to the alarm of a passing group of Cameroonians).

France manages to spread her stance enough that they both do not do themselves an injury and fall - although it _does_ mean that England has just flung herself into the other woman’s arms, her nails digging through France’s jacket into France’s hips and ribs, her face almost buried in France’s voluptuous chest.

 _“Salut,_ ma petite!” France sounds inordinately cheerful overhead, and England is going to _murder_ her. “You know, I believe you just scared your gymnastics and athletics athletes.”

England picks herself up out of France’s cleavage like an offended cat, claws out in the other Nation’s side and teeth bared in what feels like a thunderous _hiss. “‘Durs comme sa coeur’?!”_

France shrugs, and blows the single goddamn curl of her hair that England managed to knock askew out of her face. “I was bored and missed you terribly.”

“In _which_ order?” England snaps.

“It matters?”

 _“Yes,_ it matters!”

 _“Euh…”_ France shrugs again, as Gallic and useless as her goddamn rooster. “I forget. But it worked, did it not?”

England scowls in her face, irritably turning her head away from France’s fingers when they reach up behind her to begin tugging at England’s scrunchie, clearly unimpressed with England’s woeful ponytail. “You just insulted me in _incredibly shitty verse_ in front of a third of the world!”

“True.” England’s wiggling ignored, France manages to removes England’s scrunchie, and England’s hair slips loose in a slightly-frazzled curtain down her back. “But unless the poetry was _so bad -”_

“It _was.”_

“Don’t I usually insult you in front of _more_ of the world than that?”

England opens her mouth.

Thinks about it.

England closes her mouth again.

…The frog has a point.

France smiles at her, charmingly winsome, and leans in to kiss England very sweetly on the mouth. “Really, _chère_ , you should be admiring my restraint.”

England is still thinking about it. “… _Don’t_ flirt with my athletes.”

France’s smile widens, and she just leans in to kiss England again.


End file.
